Penchant For Deceit
by BC
Summary: When Artemis was a child, the world could not touch him. Now he’s older and, when Butler can’t stop all the blows anymore, Artemis learns to strike back. Slash DBAF.
1. Pyrrhic Victory

Disclaimer: I don't own Artemis Fowl and paraphernalia.

Warnings: slash, sexual situations, AU, not-quite OOC (though it might seem so for a while)

A/N: I've been suffering quite a hideous, stress- and depression-induced writer's block. This story was spawned as a desperate attempt to break it, so that I could go back and finish my WIPs. It's a three-shot, and it's already complete. I'll be posting it at intervals.  
The creation was interesting: at times a joy, at times I suffered over it (I've done oodles of research while writing this creature), but in the end I'm not unhappy.  
This story is AU; kind of willing to comply with canon, but not trying very hard. I wanted to focus on the characters, and on the metamorphosis of a kid genius (someone special and noteworthy) into an adult genius (someone misunderstood and troubled). Of course they are OOC, but I actually could see Artemis doing this. He probably would not, but he tends to be unpredictable… besides, I don't see him developing romantic feelings at all.  
Besides, to my long-lasting shame, I haven't finished all the books yet.  
Anyways, enjoy.

Part One: Pyrrhic Victory

Domovoi knew something was wrong the moment he entered his principal's room.

He had been aware of a growing uneasiness surrounding Artemis Fowl the Second for days; he was, after all, paid to observe these kind of things as well, not to mention that he and his principal had years ago crossed any and all professional boundaries. It was unavoidable. Not even extensive training could have made Domovoi Butler into a machine, and he would have to be made of metal if he wasn't to succumb to the typhoon that was young Artemis.

"Come in and close the door," Artemis said. His voice was several decibels weaker than it was supposed to be, and then there was the conspicuous lack of address that hit Domovoi's tympanums like a drumstick.

Domovoi complied.

He walked around a canopied four-poster bed Artemis had strategically situated in front of the entrance to block the sight of the rest of the room. Upon Artemis Senior's return to the manor, the boy had been forced to relinquish his headquarters, so he removed what technology he refused to part with and commandeered the largest livable bedchamber in the manor to double as the new centre of operation.

It was a credit to his perseverance that his parents were still unaware of all this.

The sight of Artemis made Domovoi fear that he had underestimated the severity of the situation.

The boy was sitting in front of the main screen, eyes glued to rows upon rows of tiny symbols, with such consternation written in his face that for a moment it occurred to Domovoi that his principal had been replaced with a changeling and they had another Lower Elements crisis on their hands. Artemis had heavy circles under his eyes, like he had not slept for three or four nights; they had not been there a couple of hours ago at lunch, but Domovoi reminded himself that Artemis possessed that bag of make-up that, he liked to think, was reserved for situations when showing his true appearance would raise uncomfortable questions from his parents – like where had he gotten that black-eye?

"You require something, sir?" he asked carefully, fervently hoping for a positive answer. Artemis was not supposed to look like this.

The boy _sighed_, _hunched_ and rested his chin on his forearms, staring somewhere through the empty expanse of oak between his keyboard and the adapted fairy thingamajig with red and green lights. It was all wrong. Normally Artemis sighed on rare occasions, but he didn't put his elbows on the table, and he most certainly didn't hunch.

"Sometimes I wish you hadn't had that prudence so ingrained into you." Artemis' fingernails scraped across the desk as he lifted himself enough to blearily glare at Domovoi. "I need to hear something else than the pre-programmed computerised 'you rang, sir?'-"

Domovoi took a deep breath to stall for a moment and tried to remain calm and rational. This was not something he had encountered before. Most children required reassurance on regular basis, and Butlers were somewhat prepared for that, too; however, Artemis had not needed anything resembling verbal emotional support for so long, that Domovoi had entirely forgotten how to go about it.

He wondered if this was inevitable, if Artemis' childish confidence had been bound to run out and he had to, in hindsight, spot all the holes in his plans he had once naively thought perfect and begin to doubt himself… The boy had been about five when he had realised that he was smarter than his parents – smarter, indeed, than almost everyone – and took such enormous pride in his intelligence, that it would have been comical, had it not been warranted. From there Artemis made a conjecture and considered himself invincible. Domovoi was, frankly, scared to contemplate how fortunate they both were to have survived this long, but he had had years to come to terms with it and become accustomed to the idea of dying for his principal's whim in that one instance when his trust would turn out undeserved.

If the same thing was hitting Artemis now, all at once…

"Do you need assistance?" Domovoi asked, disconcerted. "I could summon a doctor-"

"I could summon a doctor myself, if I required one," the boy bit off, and Domovoi was spared another glare because Artemis was looking off in a different direction. "I am quite the independent being, Butler." The 'Butler' was, impressively, hissed, despite the absence of sibilants.

Domovoi held his peace and waited for the other shoe to drop. With Artemis, there was always another shoe to drop.

The young man kicked himself away from the table – the wheels of his chair rolled for good three feet before they were stopped by the edge of the carpet – and leant back into the backrest, staring at the ceiling (or perhaps through it). He looked contemplative, insofar as Domovoi could interpret that particular pattern of wrinkles.

Leather creaked and squeaked. Artemis' face contorted into an as of yet unseen expression: self-deprecation.

"I don't deserve you," he said. "Sometimes I wonder how it is that you don't hate me."

Dovomoi was quite proud of himself for not flinching. He tried to put the words 'hate Artemis' (otherwise quite the frequently used expression) into conjunction with himself, and was coming up blank. He had sworn to himself, and so far, he liked to think, was quite successful, to lock up the troublesome emotional aspect of his work. He had had two decades of training to entirely remove principals from the category of 'another human being' and therefore also from the category of 'possible to feel emotion towards', but even that kind of training was smashed to bits when an unstoppable force of nature like Artemis Fowl the Second ripped the familiar ground from under a man's feet. In a world of supernatural, fairies, magic and bestiary even a Butler was unmatched against, he had to rely on Artemis to give him a solid point in the universe. Once anchored thus, it was only a matter of time.

These days he felt like he had Artemis ingrained as deep as into his very personality. Deeper even than his training.

"I can truthfully say that I have never considered my hating you possible, sir," he said, and felt like it was a failure, because Artemis snorted, lifted himself out of the chair with the support of his arms. His shirt was wrinkled, and most atypically had the uppermost buttons undone, showing a patch of skin so pale that it looked green in the artificial light.

At times like these Domovoi wondered if Artemis didn't have some fairy blood, himself.

"You should," the boy said in a dead tone, which Domovoi recognised as the one occasionally used on a sporadic captured enemy or in negotiations, but which he never had had aimed at himself. He could see now why it would be disconcerting. "It startles me that it was possible for a single child to inflict as much damage as I did. So much destruction… so much pain."

At this Artemis looked up and, through mussed-up bangs (usually kept tidily slicked back), peered at Domovoi. His expression was on the surface one of remorse and apology, but he just was not able to alter the indifference underneath. It was like his emotions failed to permeate his core; like they were just a part of a mask put on for the purpose of social interaction.

Domovoi asked himself, for the umpteenth time, if he could trust this monster.

For the umpteenth time, the answer was the same.

"None of it unrewarded," he reminded.

Artemis closed his eyes, lifted his hand to his throat as though he had trouble breathing, and took a subconscious step backwards. Domovoi imagined he looked like someone caught in a tornado: still able to move, but that motion carried him nowhere – he was at the mercy of the element.

Just what was the element in this instance? What could have affected this near-unflappable-

"Oh yes," Artemis hissed, and his sarcastic tone did not prevent the tingling in the tips of Domovoi's fingers. Despite the boy's mocking sneer, the temperature of the room seemed to rise. "It has made me quite the well-situated gentleman, has it not? I lack nothing in my glamorous existence, do I?"

Domovoi had no answer. Even if Artemis wanted to hear something, of which he wasn't certain, he could not think of think of anything past the confines of the room. The computer screen blacked out – Artemis Fowl the Second wasn't the type to have a fancy screen-saver – and the whole room seemed to have gotten darker. The early afternoon was overcast, and the dim light coming in through the curtains was just strong enough to make all the dark colours seem deeper.

"Tell me, my friend," Artemis said mockingly, toeing off his shoes and lying down on his bed, perpendicular, with his feet on the floor and hair splayed on the duvet, "what is there that could make me happy? Is happiness not what people strive for? My father used to tell me to covet money, yet his current teachings go not only against his philosophy, but against that of the entire Fowl line."

Domovoi, having nothing to say, remained silent.

Artemis sat up and patted the mattress next to him. "Come sit down. And take your shoes off."

Startled by the sudden change of mood, Domovoi automatically obeyed. He could smell cosmetics; his principal must have showered in the half-hour since lunch.

While he mused on the absurdity of human smells and the measures some people took to suppress them, Domovoi's hand crept up to his collar and loosened the uppermost button. Since when was it so sweltering in here? His principal liked the cool… yes, Artemis was sweating, too, even though his shirt was hanging open now, exposing a set of prominent ribs. His _breastbone_ cast _shadows_.

Domovoi's outstretched hand wiped a quivering droplet from the tip of Artemis' nose. No droplet had any business quivering on the tip of Domovoi's principal's nose.

And, damn it, was that notion not absurd? Domovoi's perception was affected by something; quite suddenly he felt incredibly present, as alive as he sometimes became in the heat of fight, high on adrenaline, with tunnel vision focused on a single objective – be it survival or-

He realised that he was drugged but he couldn't, for the life of him, find the fault in his logical reasoning.

"Domovoi…" Artemis said weakly, reaching out, wordlessly asking for help. This has happened before; once in a very long time there was something that this boy was not able to deal with, that he couldn't outthink and then he had to ask for Domovoi's help rather than take it for granted. It was like a tiny surrender and it was _heady_.

It had never occurred to Domovoi to refuse.

For once it was not at all difficult to follow the lead. Domovoi had followed Artemis' lead for a decade, ever since the boy had come back from school one day, transferred a stash of pure heroin from his book-bag into a lockable drawer, looked at Domovoi with those unnaturally cold eyes, and said: "Teach me to handle a gun." It got easier and easier with time, until he did it naturally, barely paying attention to the ethical ramifications of their actions.

Perhaps that was why the awareness that he was doing something wrong did not give him a pause when Artemis' hands – sweaty but cold – touched (they might have been gripping, but he wouldn't have been able to tell) his upper arms. Wasn't the boy a bit too young? And when – _how_ – did Domovoi become a part of this equation?

"Something's wrong," Domovoi said, staring at nothing over Artemis' head. The drapes held no answer.

"If by wrong you mean 'just like always'…" the boy replied, pulling himself up with the support of Domovoi's shoulders, so that he could whisper straight into the man's ear: "That's one thing we have in common, my friend: both of us are failures."

Yearning to comfort the man-child, Domovoi put an arm around his waist in a sort of a loose embrace that somehow, out of his control, grew tighter and tighter, until Artemis was all too comfortably pressed against him. Despite all that effort, like so many antagonists over the course of the years past, he failed to shut Artemis up.

"You broke all the rules you set yourself," Artemis breathed, and Domovoi, so focused on the words, barely registered the hands moving down his back to where they palpated his belt, and then began pulling his shirt out of his trousers. "You told me your _name_. You _care_, Domovoi…"

It must have been true. He could think of no other reason why he would have allowed his principal to meticulously undo his buttons, one by one, push the fabric off and trace his pectorals with inquisitive, chilly fingers. There also could not have been a more rational explanation for why he didn't mind that his concentration on the torrent of words ("…can't hold it against you, because if my parents weren't smart enough to control me, you could hardly have been expected to… so what if I wanted too much and ruined myself…? and ruined you…") made him miss when Artemis shed most of his clothing.

"…don't know what I am, don't know what I want to be, don't know…" Artemis was mumbling and Domovoi stared upwards, where the canopy seemed to come alive while he was being pulled into an unexpectedly warm body.

x

Domovoi figured that he could finally trust his reflexes with his breathing and let his mind veer off to the second most pressing problem. He started by straightening the facts. He was lying in bed, specifically in the bed of Artemis Fowl the younger, his principal. Artemis himself was lying next to – or, rather, across – him, on the verge of consciousness. Their current predicament was, in entirety, caused by post-coital languidness.

Artemis might have seemed emotionless most of the time, but now, shaken by the intensity of the experience, he had tears sliding down his face, tracking dark violet and grey eye-shadows as the rings under his eyes (an artful rendition, indeed) smeared. Domovoi suspected he had just blown that unfathomable genius mind.

He was not any better.

He had been seduced – expertly seduced by a sixteen-year-old virgin, whom he knew-

-whom he _should have known_ better than himself. Damn it… If it had been anyone else, anyone but Artemis Fowl, they would not have stood a chance. It was times like these, the times when Artemis won against insurmountable odds, that Domovoi remembered why his trust in this over-ambitious child, in this semi-evil little bundle of paradoxes, never wavered.

He had died before, or as good as, so he knew the extent of his own fallibility well… or so he had assumed. Out of breath, high on endorphins, and utterly baffled by the person he had known practically from their mother's womb, Domovoi had to reconsider.

He would have to resign.

He had broken every rule in the book now. It didn't matter that he had been manipulated into it by the one person on earth who did not fail in obtaining anything they wanted. He should have been stronger, should have been smarter. It was his job to see through his principal's faulty decisions and compensate.

He had failed.

Domovoi could imagine what would follow. If he wasn't slapped with a lawsuit by the Fowls (he did not think Artemis would go about revenge that way, once he had an idea of the fallout of his latest plan, but with Artemis one never knew), he would have to go far away from here, far enough to be out of Artemis' reach, though with the implementation of fairy technology, such a place might not exist on this planet. There was only one way left, and it might not be so bad… not so bad at all, compared to a life void of… everything that made it interesting.

"You drugged me," he said in the end, glad to find that his voice worked. It almost surprised him how matter-of-fact he sounded, in this indescribably absurd situation. At least that much – him being drugged – made sense. Also, Artemis had been too well prepared for this eventuality, so it stood to reason that he had engineered it.

There was some shifting and a soft, tender touch that shocked Domovoi into looking.

Artemis had his chin rested on his interlaced fingers on top of Domovoi's chest, and was peering through his disheveled hair at the man's face. Once certain of having full attention, he shrugged and said: "Not as such. I lowered your inhibitions."

Domovoi wondered if he had expected some kind of explanation, or even an apology.

"And, to be accurate, I drugged us all. I could not think of a way to target you specifically, so I contaminated the meal before it was brought to the dining hall."

"You drugged my sister?" Domovoi growled, afraid that his principal had finally done something he would not be able to come to terms with. Not that it mattered much: he was leaving anyway, and this just decided that he was taking Juliet with him. It was enough that his own professional life was ruined by this family of deranged criminals; he would at least protect her.

Artemis had the gall to shrug again. "It's more-or-less just an aphrodisiac, and she is an attractive young lady. I don't think she should have any trouble with the effects."

"That's-"

Domovoi cut himself off. There were plenty of things to say, like 'that's my sister you're talking about!' or 'that's pushing the level of depravity I thought you capable of sinking to', or even 'that's almost enough to make me consider hating you'. Still, Artemis was fully aware of all those, and therefore Domovoi would be but wasting his breath in voicing them.

Instead, he redirected his attention from the results to the cause. What on earth could have driven someone like Artemis Fowl the Second to dose his entire family and part of the staff with aphrodisiacs? Did he find the number of his siblings insufficient? Had he thought Juliet would, in her uninhibited state, turn to him?

He was not, by nature, prone to cynicism – that was Artemis' forte, even as a little child – but Butlers had ever found sarcasm a way of coping. So Domovoi, vulnerable and so defenseless that he was on the verge of panic, resorted to that. "What, pray tell, was the point of this experiment?"

"This," Artemis replied brazenly, though he lifted his eyebrows a little, as if surprised that it was not obvious enough. He shifted again then, kneeling up astride of Domovoi's right leg, unabashed about his state of undress (which was, at the moment, the lesser of the calamities). "I came to the conclusion that I wished for the experience, and by a process of elimination decided that you would be the optimal partner. The problem was to get past the pesky obstructions of ethics and professionalism."

Domovoi sat up and gripped Artemis' jaw in his hand, coming closer to using violence on the boy than he ever had. It took enormous self-control to stop himself.

He was so, so immensely hurt by this that he could not begin to put it in words. It felt like a knife in his back, a blade sliding into his flesh just under his heart, wedged between ribs, tearing into him and stealing his vitality. He had since stopped thinking of himself as separate from his principal; to find that he had been betrayed by who he considered as good as a part of himself was too painful.

Did Artemis want to get rid of him? Or was it yet another case of the resident genius not being smart enough to consider all repercussions? Was there already a replacement waiting, or would Artemis be shocked to find out about Domovoi's resignation?

"Firstly," the boy said empathically, "I didn't use any kind of mind-control on you; it only exemplified your desires. Secondly, I didn't need to go to any kind of extreme lengths. So don't try to feed me some kind of bullshit like you didn't want me, _Domovoi_."

Artemis was shocked into silence when he was shoved backwards, landing on his behind on the carpet. It might have hurt, even, but he didn't let out a sound, only stared upwards with wide eyes. Domovoi made a quick work of putting on his clothes and distancing himself emotionally as far as it was still possible for him.

"You cannot be serious," he said, checking that he had gotten back all his weapons. A wakizashi was missing, but he found it quickly, stored under the bed.

The boy didn't bother moving away from the spot where Domovoi had so unceremoniously deposited him. He merely pulled his knees to his chest and glared, and only the devil knew if he had displayed the array of bruises Domovoi had unintentionally inflicted on purpose.

"We both know just how poor my sense of humour is, Domovoi," Artemis reminded him. "Have you expected something else? A benign plot to feed the children in Africa? A dastardly scheme to reverse the Greenhouse Effect? Have you truly that much faith in me that you would think I have invested myself in an altruistic scheme?"

Domovoi certainly didn't. Once in a while he let himself imagine that one day, in the far off future, Artemis would become tired of just how _interesting_ his life was, and would settle for an occupation less likely to get him – and the people around him – killed. He didn't hold his breath, though.

"No," he said shortly. He would have liked to take his leave, but no matter how self-assured a pose he would assume while walking out of that door, it would have been running away. A Butler only ever ran away if that was the more expedient choice. In this instance, it might have cost him the last opportunity to speak with his principal in private, no matter how much he did not feel like talking to Artemis.

The boy finally lifted himself with the help of a bed-post, haphazardly pulled on his shirt (leaving it open) and gave Domovoi a look that could only be described as 'demure'.

It had to be yet another manipulation, because Artemis Fowl didn't do demure, and then there was the hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth when he voiced his sad excuse of a parting shot: "And that there's the reason it had to be you."

x

Artemis had grown into a good enough actor that, when Domovoi followed him into the dining room, they projected the very same air of practiced companionship and near-thought-reading that they always did.

Domovoi rather had it easy, since he mostly kept himself expressionless, and it was difficult to see the minor differences of a face that was out of sight (normal people tended to look at his chin when speaking to him). He transferred food from the plate into his mouth with simple, effective motions, chewed and swallowed. It was mechanic and he could have cared less what he was eating, so long as it didn't stuck in his esophagus.

On the other hand, Artemis was required to participate in conversation. Paradoxically, it was neither his expression, nor his tone, nor his words that gave him out. Two minutes into the second course, when Artemis reached for the carafe of wine and poured himself half a glass, his mother took notice of the well-disguised tension.

"You're looking a bit peaky, Arty," she remarked, cutting off a piece of salmon and pausing to add: "Are you not feeling well?"

It was touching to see her concern, or at least Domovoi thought it was, unused to others feeling concern for him, but Artemis clearly did not appreciate it. He hid that reaction well, lifting the glass in a nonverbal toast.

"I'm fine, mum," the boy replied. "There's just the matter of the elephant, but I think Butler and I ought to tackle that on our own." He gave his parents a smile that made glaciers warm by comparison – they probably loved him too much to notice – set the wineglass down without drinking, excused himself from the table and disappeared through the door to the hallway.

"Elephant?" Angeline Fowl asked her husband, befuddled. It was lucky that the Fowls were not prone to figurativeness and the too dangerously obvious connotation had not immediately sprung to their mind-

No, Domovoi corrected himself. Luck had nothing to do with it this time. Artemis had known perfectly well that his parents would not understand. He was toying with them, making them dance to his tune, because he could, somewhat like he sometimes played tetris with his left hand while writing with his right. Domovoi believed that Artemis cared about his parents, but that he somewhat shuffled them off to the side and at times did not take them seriously.

Artemis the First shrugged and lifted a forkful of eggs to his mouth. "Must be school-stuff."

Domovoi rose and ghosted out of the room, noticed only by Juliet, who was smart enough to remain silent and let him escape. The corridor was empty and the only sounds came from the dining Fowl family and from the yard where the gardener was trimming the hedge.

Disconcerted, he walked up the stairs, past a maid that was doing some last-minute dusting, and noted that the door to his principal's bedroom was ajar.

That door was never ajar. Discounting the very improbable case of Mulch Diggums having infiltrated the Manor again, that sight was a blatant invitation. Domovoi surprised himself by actually having a feeling about that rather than simply accepting the fact and obeying without giving it a second thought.

In the end, he entered.

A split second later, there was a hand on his shoulder – a hand that just as well could have held a knife and pressed it into his neck.

"You taught me well," Artemis said and stepped down from the bedside table.

Domovoi had to concede the fact.

"Don't go," Artemis' voice begged, even as the words formed an order, like there was, for the second time in a day, something that this boy could not outthink and had to ask for Domovoi's help. It _was_ a surrender, an admission that in this situation Domovoi was the one to take the lead, Domovoi was the one to make the decision. Domovoi was the one in control, the one in whose hands the power rested.

It was not heady at all.

"Don't tell," Artemis whispered, clutching the jacket-sleeve.

Domovoi cursed himself, but nodded.


	2. Roomful of Cinderellas

A/N: Thank you for the reviews! I realise that the story is totally AU, and therefore appreciate your positive reactions all the more. Here is the second installment for your enjoyment, with the third coming – hopefully – within the week.  
Cheers,  
Brynn

Part Two: Roomful of Cinderellas

Domovoi took a deep breath to steel himself, stepped in, and closed the door.

He had never been nervous of places as such, and he certainly was not scared of entering a room where, he knew beyond a shadow of doubt, there was no danger. There was but a sound of running water in the shower and the soft words of a voice synthesiser coming from the dislodged earpiece on the desk, announcing the current phase of downloading.

Domovoi never truly relaxed either, but he was always tenser here, where so many little things – the red and green winking lights of the monstrosity of a computer, the inch-deep carpet he unfeelingly squashed beneath heavy shoes, the _bed_, tidily made and covered with a duvet – sparked associations of the experience when the reality he accepted as real was twisted and bended out of shape. The acute awareness of the possibility of impossibility disconcerted him.

The water was turned off then, and Domovoi had just taken a stand in the corner by the window, when Artemis walked out of the shower, dripping water from his hair and not wearing a scrap of fabric. Somewhere along the way, he seemed to have lost any trace of modesty when it came to his bodyguard.

Domovoi stared at the window, pretending to himself that the reflection in the windowpane didn't show nearly enough detail for him to have a reason to be embarrassed. It wasn't so much that he minded his principal being nude (there were far worse things one encountered in the business), but the reason _why_ Artemis insisted on pushing far beyond the boundaries of propriety, that made him intensely uncomfortable.

"One good thing about being a criminal," Artemis said coolly, though Domovoi could sense his _unhappiness_, "was that society didn't expect me to cater to them." He typed something and moodily pushed the keyboard away, leaning back against the table and raking his fingers through his wet hair, entirely too vulgar about his nudity to be the least bit enticing.

Domovoi did not respond to either the verbal, or the visual provocation. He was becoming an expert in ignoring Artemis' moods.

The young man laughed humourlessly and, drying off his hair with a towel, approached his bed, where someone – presumably his mother – had arranged a tuxedo for him to wear. At five minutes to twenty, Artemis Fowl the Second could have controlled the entire surface world, had he had fewer qualms about killing people. As it was, whatever he wanted, he needed just say the word and it would be obtained for him (with one notable exception, but about that they were standing mute). It was only proper that such an upstanding gentleman should have a fiancée. Troubled by the lack of a female companion in their son's life, the Fowls did what to them undoubtedly seemed like a straightforward and viable solution of the problem: they held a banquet.

Artemis was decidedly unamused but, as his parents had long since accepted that their son was mite unusual, and came to the conclusion that they would never understand him, they did not let it discourage them. In their own way, Angeline and Artemis Fowl were doing their best to make their eldest son happy, no matter how ineffectual a measure they chose.

"You can look now," Artemis said mockingly. Domovoi understood that he was lashing out because no matter how tempting a prey he made of himself, the bodyguard never took advantage.

"I am certain there are many people of either gender well-suited to you, who would jump at the chance," Domovoi replied. He could see quite clearly in the reflection in the window that his principal had put on his trousers and shirt, and therefore there was no danger of suffering an unwanted eyeful, but within this room every gesture and every word gained a secondary and tertiary meaning. Domovoi was not very skilled at politics, but so far he had managed to avoid getting tangled in his principal's vines.

Artemis laughed again. He was prone to laughter these days, and Domovoi could honestly say that the sound made him grit his teeth for its utter voidness of mirth.

"With my mental capacity," the young man said, sitting at the desk and pulling the keyboard closer once again, "sex is more than just a bodily function; it's a mental and emotional saturation. After I experienced it with you, you think I would settle for a pale imitation?" The tapping intensified, and for about a minute Domovoi could not begin to estimate how many clicks a second there were because the sounds of them ran together. Staring at something on the screen, Artemis vaguely added: "If I ever choose to father a child, there are ways to deal with that."

It was rather plain that no one – save, perhaps, Juliet, who rather fancied her own unrealistic and overly romanticised version of the Young Master Fowl – identified with that point of view, and Domovoi wished more than anyone that _someone_ would finally catch Artemis' attention. As years passed, it was becoming a competition in obstinacy. Much as Domovoi didn't like to admit it, it could not be disputed that Artemis was physically weak, dainty and with a mind like a steel-trap – not at all husband material, not even for one of the peroxide-blonde bimbos. On some level, a highly abstract and theoretical one, Domovoi could understand Artemis' opinion, even perhaps, to a point, agree with it, but in this reality, governed by these rules, the idea was less possible than magic.

"We agreed that we would not mention that," Domovoi said a while later, referring to the gross breach of not only contract but also decency that had occurred in this very room some three years ago.

"To anyone else," Artemis agreed with a nod. "Just like about thousand other things like Holly, saving the world, battling goblin rebellions and messing with time-space… and let's not forget magic. Isn't it flattering when I group you – my single sexual experience – together with magic?"

Domovoi ignored the smirk and then, less then successfully, tried to ignore the bag of make-up products Artemis took with himself back to the bathroom.

x

Domovoi took a position in a nook by a statuette of a semi-naked young woman. The guests did not speak to him. It wasn't as if they did not see him, but he was simply accepted as a fixture: like a lamp or a particularly uninteresting landscape.

His eyes swept the ballroom once again, almost wishing there was something to do, except that Artemis hoped to attract as little attention as possible and the problems that happened to them were mostly of the attention-grabbing kind.

The hall was anything but still. Big-pots and bigger-pots were milling around in clothing the cost of which clambered higher than Empire State Building. Women wore, in too many cases, indecently little fabric and indecently much jewelry, and seemed to converge around the few young (or middle-aged) male guests that were known for their single status and account-size.

"…overdone," a lady (and Domovoi was using the title loosely) passed by him, glaring at the décor and informing her teenage companion: "Don't know what Angeline was thinking! Utterly tasteless!"

Domovoi privately agreed that the hostess had splurged too much and the decorators had run around unchecked; there were enough flowers to make a couple dozen asthmatics asphyxiate and half-an-orchestra playing live music to add an artful background to the scene of rich people gorging on petit-fours. The bouquets blocked his sight, and it was really too easy to hide a Glock in a handbag.

He glanced over to the dais, where the hosts were presently greeting the incomers. Artemis shook the hand of a heavy-set gentleman whom Domovoi identified as Christian Marshall-Williams, the owner of a private health-insurance company and a father of two daughters. Polite laughs were being exchanged.

Domovoi gritted his teeth.

The Marshall-Williams family moved on to socialise, and Artemis took a moment to brace himself for the next well-wisher, while he discreetly checked on his bodyguard's position. He pretended to take a sip from a flute of champagne and set it on a passing waiter's tray. Artemis did not actually drink, Domovoi was certain; he had never drank alcohol, almost comically opposed to sacrificing even a single brain-cell on the altar of social obligations. He had also never smoked, for similar reasons, and the only drug he had ever taken was cocaine, after two all-nighters when he desperately needed to think-

"-_I_'ve heard he actually has an independent business…" a rather two-dimensional (literally and figuratively) young woman was saying to her companions.

"I wouldn't put it past him," a young man – Cecil Brumfiel, so far not much more than a waste of space and air – replied, and with a practiced motion took two glasses of martini from the passing waitress. "We went to Bartleby's together. But I have to warn you, Felicity; that guy is mental. He saw the school-shrink more than all the other weirdos combined-"

Domovoi briefly considered whether a black-eye could improve Brumfiel's appearance or personality, but came to the conclusion that that was a lost battle he could not be bothered to fight.

He checked that none of the plentiful guests was pulling out any kind of hand-weapon, and went back to keeping watch on his principal.

x

After the official parts (the welcoming speech, the toast, the salutations and the birthday-boy's profession of gratefulness for the many presents) were done with, the crowd fell apart and coagulated into little groups of mostly similarly-aged members.

With nary a thought, Artemis plucked the strawberry from the top of the cake next to him and stuck it into his mouth.

Domovoi wondered how he could ever have thought that the boy had a crisis of confidence. Earth would plunge into Sun before Artemis Fowl the second started doubting himself.

Artemis was presently ambushed by a gaggle of young females and practically forced to pick one to dance with. There was some commotion as the women themselves had trouble settling on who exactly was to be the _lucky one_, before a stick-figure yet thinner than Artemis let herself be led to the dance-floor. In high-heeled shoes, she was a head taller than he.

Domovoi did another sweep of the hall, and when he allowed himself a moment of reprieve, he found that his principal had switched the temporary owner. He felt a tiny, entirely admissible, amount of schadenfreude for both parts of the arrangement: the girls were all tall, over-parfumed golddiggers; Artemis danced like a machine. He kept the rhythm and knew all the steps, and if it were a competition he would have gotten full marks for technique, but there was no emotion in his exhibition, not to speak about enjoyment. He made it plain how much he resented his acquaintance's presence without actually giving them a tangible reason to be offended.

It went so far that Angeline cut in and took her son away from the dance-floor. They settled by the table with snacks, and Artemis appropriated a cocktail stick, on which he speared the nearest piece of food, and which he then used as an effective defence against being asked to dance again. In instance of danger, it could have been utilised as a lethal weapon, too.

Domovoi set out on another sweep, _coincidentally_ finding something to occupy himself with just round the corner from his principal – who was, undoubtedly, aware of Domovoi's location – and the principal's mother.

"…not interested?" Angeline was inquiring.

Domovoi could interpret a great amount of glee from Artemis' voice when he said, simply and with sting: "I have a lover."

"You do?" Angeline asked, shocked.

There was a period of silence while she was coming to terms with the information and Domovoi was wondering whether that had been a bold-faced lie, or if Artemis was in fact misinterpreting- the thing that did not happen.

Then Angeline found her voice again. "Who is she? Do I know her? How long have you been together? Where did you two meet? Why isn't she here?"

Artemis, cool as an ice-cube, replied: "We're going through a bit of a rough patch right now."

"Oh. Are you arguing?"

"No; in fact, we communicate extremely well. It is just the issue of the relationship we are avoiding at the moment."

Not a bold-faced lie then. Domovoi scowled. A guest coming out of the 'gents' took a glance at his face and scurried off, peering back over his shoulder in fright. It was highest time for Domovoi to return to his post, anyway, so he stepped out of the cover of the wall.

"You should have told me, Arty. Why didn't you? We went through all this trouble-"

"You love these happenings, mum. And so does dad." Artemis gestured towards the raised dais, where Artemis the First was entertaining a group of gentlemen with mustaches and beer bellies. They seemed to be having the time of their lives listening to their host's boisterous rendition of anecdotes from his adventurous youth.

"Does Butler know her?"

Standing two steps behind Angeline, Domovoi probably should have told her… well, something. Certainly not the truth, though, despite the fact that technically _she_ and _her husband_ were his employers. Luckily for his principal, Domovoi would not have known which lie to pick, so he simply continued on his way with Angeline none the wiser to his presence, catching a bit more of the conversation.

"Of course he does," Artemis replied, gesturing wildly with the hand holding the skewer, "however, he is under orders not to tell anyone."

"You must bring her by, Arty. I have to meet the girl that stole my son's heart."

With the sort of awe people tend to feel towards avalanches in Himalayas, Domovoi watched as Artemis smiled and benignly nodded in compliance to his mother's request. He would have liked to think that his principal meant to hire an actress for the role of his partner, but since that solution had occurred to him, it was almost certain Artemis was planning something different.

Hopefully no one would die this time and no new war would be started.

In proud possession of a cocktail snack speared on his stick, Artemis escaped his mother and sauntered over to Domovoi's nice shady alcove. He leaned against the statue in a measured, disconcertingly suave pose and blinked a few times, as if to suggest how ignominiously tedious the banquet was.

"My parents want to meet you," he said, feigning carelessness so well, that Domovoi actually had to close his eyes, take a deep breath to brace himself, and remind himself why attempting to kill his own principal was a bad idea (and alternatively, why having intimate relations with them was a yet worse idea). "Of course, I should warn you that they seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that you are a female-"

"I wonder why," Domovoi said dryly. It was quite against protocol, but Artemis would not be offended.

Artemis actually half-smiled, as if Domovoi had somehow extracted another bucketful of earth from his future grave. Then he answered the question, which he had chosen to misinterpret: "Because, technically, you were contracted by my father and therefore he is the one paying you. I am several times wealthier then he is and can more than afford your services, but the trick is to have the contract transferred to me without hinting on anything that might suggest some kind of indiscretion."

"The contract runs out on your twenty-first birthday," Domovoi reminded him.

Artemis paused to consider the validity of the threat. Eventually he shook his head and smiled, this time more symmetrically and less sincerely. "You would not leave me, Butler. Not for as long as I have money to pay you, and I think not even if I was bankrupt. I dare say you _could_ not leave me."

Domovoi would have liked to refute the statement, if not for anything else than to stop feeling like a possession, like a puppet suspended on Artemis' strings, but he could not find the conviction. He could, naturally, imagine a situation in which he had another principal, but he could not picture who and what he would have become.

Artemis Fowl was a part of Domovoi Butler perhaps even more than Domovoi Butler was a part of Artemis Fowl.

He suppressed an exasperated sigh (this event _was_ tedious) and followed the direction of Artemis' look. Angeline Fowl was glaring at them, peeved that her son was wasting time talking to his bodyguard rather than entertaining the ladies. Juliet, half-hidden behind Madam Fowl, winked at them.

Artemis ignored both, but even so abandoned his leisurely pose.

"Go get a piece of the cake, Butler," he said and, waving his culinary weapon, added: "If anyone attacks me while you've got your hands full, I'll stab them in the eye."

x

At half past three in the morning, the odious show of money and decadence was mercifully over. The security had had most action near the end, when they had to escort some of the guests that had overindulged to their respective limos, but other than that the entire event passed without incident.

Artemis had disposed of his cocktail stick and disappeared from the room before his parents located him amongst the reflux of rowdy crowd. Since the little Fowls had been sent to bed with Juliet and the governess hours earlier, there was no reason for Domovoi to stay behind and oversee the cleaning team.

He found the door to his principal's room ajar. A few steps in, past the view-blocking four-poster, he could see himself on the computer screen as depicted by the camera above the door.

"Identification positive: Butler," the inflectionless voice of the synthesiser came from the speakers.

Artemis, in pyjama bottoms, pushed the closet-door open. He was sitting in a wedge between shirts and jackets, freshly showered and not the least bit out of sorts crawling out of furniture like a Bogart. If it had not been for his eyes, he would have looked like a cut-out from a black-and-white horror.

"Butler…?" The young man blinked a few times to get his eyes accustomed to the sudden light. "Oh. I haven't expected to see you today… at least not before breakfast…"

Domovoi silently offered a hand to help his principal climb out of the closet; if his syntax was suffering so badly he must have been exhausted, and thus likely to break his neck when he stumbled out-

Domovoi caught him – Artemis was, at twenty, still thin, and for all the tendon-supported strength Domovoi knew there was he just did not have the bulk of an adult man – and with little fuss deposited him on the bed. Overtired and apparently only half-aware, Artemis lay there passively, until his exasperated bodyguard pulled the duvet from under him and haphazardly spread it over him.

Reassured that his principal was safe and sound, and more than a little tired himself, Domovoi spun on his heel and came less than a step away from the relative safety of the hallway, when Artemis spoke.

"I was thinking about my father."

Domovoi halted, for a while seriously deliberated saying simply 'good night' and leaving, so that they could have this exchange later, when neither of them was so impaired; there was, however, a limit to how much he was able to refuse Artemis.

"In the closet it's easier to be objective; you don't have the evidence of your eyes to interfere with truth and logic."

Artemis had shifted so that he was lying on his side, head supported on the palm of his right hand, elbow buried deep in the huge soft pillow. _Overtired_, indeed, Domovoi thought with distaste. When there were no plots to execute, no criminals to defy and no ends of the world to avert, Artemis' boredom drove him to becoming a chronic liar, deceiving just because he could – or to see if he could. He was entirely too talented at it.

Domovoi thought to tell him to go to sleep. Ten years ago he would have. Perhaps even five years ago, and if Artemis had been knackered enough he might have taken the advice, too. Now, though, he had no business criticising his principal's sleeping habits, so he said the next best thing: "I ought to take some rest."

It was unsubtle, but it _almost_ made Artemis let him go; there was a telltale flicker of expression, a second or two of indecision, before the young man sat up.

"Do you think my father is being controlled by my mother?" he asked, and without waiting for answer continued in his monologue. "Because I was, frankly, stunned by the _creatures_ my parents consider suitable marriage prospects for me. How could they expect me to survive within a room with one of them – even for the duration of a meal?"

Domovoi felt that there was something amusing about the situation, though he managed not to display the satisfaction at seeing the calm and collected Artemis flustered by something as inane as gold-digging females. Also, a bodyguard had no business commenting on the nature of the relationship between Artemis Fowl the First and his wife, so he said nothing.

"I am the smartest human I know-" Artemis humbly excluded the Lower Elements, which Domovoi could not but commend, "-and I can't figure this out. How could my father, then a money-obsessed arrogant snob, marry my mother and years later, by accident, find that he actually… what?"

"Loved her?" Domovoi suggested. He took great care to emphasise the question.

Artemis rolled his eyes. "Love is an abstract concept," he said, frowning like he was disappointed that Domovoi would suggest something so banal. Then he met Domovoi's eyes, and suddenly it was a very good thing that the bodyguard was standing by the door, at a moderately safe distance. "_Caring_ is real. _Devotion_ is real. Acceptance and understanding… those are things that matter."

Artemis stood from the bed, ignoring the duvet that pooled by his feet. He approached, slowly, like a hunter careful not to startle the prey. "I won't tell you that I love you. I won't lie to you. But I can safely tell you that there is nobody but you without whom I could not imagine going on as I am."

Domovoi did not kid himself into thinking that there was other reason for the statement's truth than his usefulness to his principal. Artemis had already shown himself to be utterly unconcerned about manipulating Domovoi or trying to bullshit him; it was most likely but a coincidence that he was actually telling the truth now.

Domovoi wished he had space to back away. It was not as if Artemis scared him, but he definitely made him uncomfortable, and the room and all the damnable associations did not help.

"You sounded very certain that I would not be able to leave," Domovoi reminded his principal of the words so coldly flung into his face mere hours prior.

"I talk a lot," the young man said with a shrug. How anyone could describe Artemis' fibbing so _gently_, so understated, was a puzzle. "But I'd like to believe that."

When the last three feet of space between them were about to be abolished, Domovoi extended his hand palm-first. Artemis paused and quirked his eyebrows in a silent question.

"A life-long contract," Domovoi said. It was the most he could offer… the most he could offer to _anyone_. For him it meant the rest of his life spent dogging the steps of a borderline-sociopathic genius who had no respect for personal space and similar niceties, but he had known for quite some time that Artemis' twenty-first birthday would not coincide with the end of his tenure here. There was only one time when he had seriously considered leaving, but even then he had _wanted_ to stay so much that he had let a half-night of groveling, and a solemn promise that Artemis would never drug either Domovoi or Juliet without their explicit consent, sway him.

"W-what…?" Artemis stammered, floored.

Domovoi looked back flatly. "I'm willing."

The atmosphere was heavy, but for once not with tension. There was something grave in the situation, a kind of forever not entirely different from a proposal. The irony was barely fathomable.

Artemis shook his head, for once looking exactly his age – not a bit younger or older. "That's not what I was asking for."

Of course it wasn't. Artemis was asking, again and again and again, the same question, unwilling to accept the answer Domovoi was day after day after day repeating. They were stuck in a loop, neither willing to give an inch: Artemis because he didn't know how to relinquish something he wanted, Domovoi because he could not.

That was why Domovoi offered a slight quirk of lips and the simple yet final response: "But it is what I am offering."

x

It was not at all unusual for them to have cryptic conversations – with the level of understanding between them they sometimes forewent the conversation entirely – but having one in the centre of the monitored Fowl Library was in itself ridiculous. Artemis was yet again playing with fire, and this time there was not even an obvious goal to achieve.

Domovoi suspected his principal was flirting with calamity just to get his adrenaline fix, since lately no mortal danger had happened upon them.

They were, _once again_, dancing around the topic of not starting an illicit affair between an employer and an employee bridging an age difference of twenty-two years, in front of security cameras nonetheless, while Domovoi disassembled and reassembled his Sig Sauer and Artemis climbed up on the ladders, quietly hating the fact that the more obscure (and therefore more interesting) books had yet to be digitalised.

"In addition to all the obvious reasons," and all the hidden ones, and the multitude that wouldn't have occurred to Domovoi, but which Artemis would have seen clearly, "you should consider if too many functions concentrated in a single object would not make you dependent."

Artemis laughed.

Domovoi gritted his teeth; his painstakingly formulated allusion was dismissed just like that.

"You have horrible timing with your advice, Butler," the young man said, shaking his head. "Addiction so easily develops with even one taste. You cannot go years with getting your daily dose and not become dependent."

Domovoi did not sigh, but he was sorely tempted to. He pushed his Sig back into the holster and resolutely kept both his soles on the floor. He was brimming with pent-up nervous energy, but tapping his foot would have been too embarrassing. He should have been meditating right now, not arguing with his principal about why he would not bed him.

"Besides," Artemis spoke up after a pause, as if he had just thought of a new aspect, "everyone has some kind of addiction. This is damn sight better than nicotine or hallucinogens."

Domovoi, with a taste of black humour, replied: "You should kick the habit."

He half-expected Artemis to choose to interpret it literally and attempt to kick him, but – whether for the benefit if the camera, or simply because he was having a mature moment – Artemis refrained.

"Can't," he replied, hopping off the ladder to show that _no_, he was not being mature for the sake of maturity. "It has long since become a part of my residual self-image."

"Residual self-image?" Domovoi inquired. The reference was familiar.

"If you plugged me in, I'd emerge with you by my side," Artemis hinted, opening an old, crumbling volume on the ebony desk and leaning over a hand-written page. "D'Arvit," he grumbled. "Couldn't have written in Latin, could he?"

While Artemis did his best to avoid breathing in bits of crumbling parchment, Domovoi finally managed to work out the cultural reference and promptly dismissed it as yet another instance of his principal canting. He wished there was at least a reason for him to haunt this awfully dull place. He could have been in the gym, or at the range; but no, Young Master Artemis insisted that Butler spend the day with him.

"Only about ten more minutes, Butler," Artemis said, not having looked up from the text. "I'll free you from this torture." It was eerie, and considering the things Domovoi had seen in his life, that was saying something. If Artemis got any better at mind-reading, Domovoi would become entirely superfluous.

He pulled out his Sig and started disassembling anew.

Twelve minutes later the grandfather clock announced half past five, and Artemis carefully shut the book. "I'll be taking this with me," he said, putting it on top of a stack. "And, apparently, I'll be learning Old Icelandic."

Domovoi moved to take the books, but Artemis waved him off, hefting the load with visible strain; at least he graciously accepted when Domovoi held the door open for him. A pair of maids, each with a tray in her hands, rapidly hushed and sped up on their way to the kitchen.

Artemis craned his neck to see outside. In the yard, Angeline Fowl was seeing out a group of guests, several of which were notably female and notably young.

With a sigh of relief, Artemis looked over at Domovoi. "That danger's passed. Thanks for guarding me."

"You are aware that your mother will not give up?" Domovoi asked, falling into step at his principal's side, contemplating whether he should not repeat his offer to take the books, but eventually coming to the conclusion that Artemis wouldn't have had qualms about asking for help if he wanted it.

"Then," Artemis said, with a wry smile, "you'll just have to keep on guarding me."


	3. Loki

A/N: I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed and/or added _Penchant For Deceit_ to their alerts/favorites. As promised, this is the third and last installment, whereupon the story is concluded – hopefully, to your satisfaction.  
Do drop me a line, if you feel so inclined.  
Signing out,  
Brynn

Part Three: Loki

x

Artemis woke up to ringing.

His mobile phone not-so-politely informed him that it was six o'clock Greenwich time, which meant that it was seven here. He grumbled unintelligibly, well aware that he should get out of bed if he wanted to have breakfast before they set out.

"Good morning," Domovoi said neutrally.

Artemis blearily glanced at him, muttered something that could have been construed as a response, and stumbled to the bathroom. He came back seven minutes later, looking like he had not just climbed out of bed. He was becoming adept at these swift transformations; Domovoi only had to notice the missing stubble that had been there a while ago to realise that the very serious boy he had known for years was not there anymore.

He missed it. The insidious emotion had crept up on him out of nowhere, and now it was twisting his insides. He missed the times when magic was unexpected and _magical_, for a lack of a better world, when Artemis viewed the world through the eyes of a child (no matter how much smarter the child was than all the adults around him) and a little bit of the sheer exultation at being alive and in control had rubbed off on Domovoi.

He considered if, maybe, he was not too old for this job.

"Did you sleep at all?" Artemis asked in between swallowing a forkful of eggs and biting into a slice of bread (Domovoi had not had much to do; acquiring food from the room service at least livened up five minutes of his time).

"A couple of hours," he replied, glancing out of the window. Ten floors down, a black Audi parked just short of the glass entrance; whoever had arrived would hardly have to stain their shoes with rainwater.

Artemis finished everything on the plate in record time – inhaling his meals was swiftly becoming another of his unhealthy habits – and wiped his hands on a napkin. Domovoi kept looking out of the window through the sheets of rain while his principal got dressed for the day in black and white, stylish yet lifeless. The young man was _truly_ unconcerned about his nudity these days; it was more than a year since he had stopped showing it off.

"I would move out of the Manor, but then you'd _never_ rest," Artemis said, located his second shoe and put it on.

Domovoi considered the ramifications of such an action. Certainly, life in Fowl Manor had its advantages – mainly that there was exceptional security, defensibility and trusted staff to take care of the basic needs. Among other things, Domovoi could not imagine his employer worrying about things like whether there was enough toilet paper.

On the other hand, it would have been easier for Artemis to invent a lover, he would not have to hire an actress for the role – which he had, in the end, resorted to when his mother pressured him about it – and no one would wonder where he spent so much time or why he sometimes returned in early morning hours.

Perhaps, with enough time and sufficient preparations, Artemis could establish his own headquarters outside his family's residence. So Domovoi concluded: "It could be arranged. You have the resources."

Artemis donned his coat and sunglasses, and picked up his suitcase. A glance at his watch told Domovoi that it was not yet seven fifteen. Less than quarter of an hour from deep sleep to readiness to depart. It sometimes baffled him that this was the same Artemis Fowl he had known for the past twenty-two years.

Domovoi shut the door behind them, flipped the sign to the side that refused room-service and stepped next to his principal to wait for the elevator. Even wearing slight heels, Artemis still barely came to his shoulders, but Domovoi couldn't not notice how worryingly he had aged in the years past. There was something broken in his expressions, some underlying sadness that would not go away and only ever left momentarily when replaced by smugness. Artemis was not depressed, he was sure, but it seemed like all enthusiasm had drained from him and he was going on determination.

In the demanding presence of his siblings, Artemis was at least continuously forced to experience the better aspects of life.

"That might be," Artemis said, referring to his permanent departure from the Manor, just as the elevator arrived, "but to what end? What would I gain?"

Domovoi preceded him into the cabin and made sure that the heavily made-up middle-aged woman within had no chance to harm his principal. She didn't spare them a glance. Domovoi had not expected her to pull out a knife and stab someone, but, like Artemis, he was not about to become complacent simply because he lacked vim.

Outside in the rain, Domovoi hailed a cab (he truly abhorred the necessity, but it was not feasible to arrange private transport at such a short notice) and Artemis tacitly slipped into the backseat. The driver, young and exhaustingly enthusiastic, asked for their destination and expectantly stared at Domovoi in the front seat.

He jumped a mile when Artemis spoke: "_Kungliga biblioteket, Humlegården_."

x

Students, ever-present in the National Library, had taken to eyeing Artemis whenever he passed a gaggle of them. Though anonymous, the young Fowl exuded an atmosphere of money, and despite his disposition attracted much unwanted attention. He had been the victim of several invitations, ranging from 'to café' to 'straight to bed' (at least so he had interpreted them to Domovoi afterwards), all of which he dodged by pretending that he didn't speak Swedish.

Domovoi wasn't the least bit surprised to witness, half an hour later, the perfectly fluent conversation between his principal and Lars Grefveberg, a man with more scientific degrees than he could use with his name, who was, for all intents and purposes, in charge of the place.

"_…vi ses senare_," Artemis said in the end and stood from the armchair, which Domovoi took as a hint that they were leaving.

"_Ha en bra dag_," replied the wizened Swede, and handed Artemis the paper on which he had been making notes for the duration of their meeting.

Artemis waited until they were in the corridor before he allowed the smugness to appear on his face. For a moment he looked so alive, and Domovoi wished there was a way to capture that, to make sure that vitality remained, or at least surfaced far more often than it lately did, but then they stepped out of the building and it was raining again. Artemis had his sunglasses on, and Domovoi wondered if there actually was a reason other than habit, because Artemis had gone legit years ago and Stockholm was being too grey and gloomy to hurt the eyes.

The car Domovoi had managed to procure for them waited where he had parked it. Artemis got in quickly, too impatient to bother with the usual Butler-routine, and laid back into the seat. Domovoi checked on him in the rearview mirror, but he seemed fine, even somewhat elated.

"Good news?" Domovoi asked. His voice was hoarse from disuse and he had to clear his throat, or else he would have had to cough, and that was inadvisable whilst driving.

Artemis looked away from the mirror. He pretended to watch the town passing by outside – or, more likely, he truly did watch, for whatever less than nefarious plot, less than engaging scheme. The work was so grey it made Artemis grey (not literally, but in spirit), like a reflection of the damn weather.

The wipers cleared Domovoi's view.

There was something in the Library here – or, at least, his principal thought it was there, which was a pretty good indication that it, in fact, _was_ there – that was more important than missed deals, or even than overseeing the management of Artemis' rapidly growing corporation. Artemis had told everybody it was to be a holiday, but Domovoi knew him to well to have believed the lie for a second; Artemis didn't do holiday. He did infiltration, and filled the spaces in between with work.

Except that lately there only had been work.

"I might have to take a sabbatical," Artemis said with the kind of icy smile that meant what he thought and what he voiced were entirely different things. "A trip to Iceland sounds good, doesn't it?"

Domovoi hummed noncommittally, unsure if Artemis actually wished for a response.

"Do you remember? I once asked you what could make me happy…"

Domovoi remembered entirely too well. The inquiry had been followed by one of Artemis' less destructive mistakes. Oddly, time healed that wound, too. Artemis did not learn quickly or easily, but he always did learn.

"I didn't think you had posed the question seriously," Domovoi replied with candidness. It had been a part of a tirade that was a part of a manipulation, and Domovoi knew better than to accept anything Artemis might have said at face value.

The young man in the back of the car pulled off his glasses and looked into the mirror. "This – what I've been doing since I've been of age – isn't it."

Domovoi was aware of that all too acutely. It was staring him in the face, every time he looked at his principal, every time he compared the expressionless face, the flat stare, the perpetually disinterested manner, to the child he had known and befriended.

He had an inkling of what was coming next, and felt angry at himself for the spark of excitement it ignited.

"I was thinking about going back into crime."

Domovoi stopped at a red light and watched the crossing pedestrians with much more interest than he actually felt to keep from smiling. It was not his place to judge his principal's decisions, unless they affected his safety. This might have, in the long run, but Domovoi did not mind… and that made him a failure, just like he knew he would end up when he realised how much he had allowed himself to care.

"What do you think?" Artemis asked, calm, but in a tone that demanded answer. Domovoi recognised that tone from Artemis' father.

"I am your bodyguard, sir. You should not curtail your activities according to my opinions."

Artemis lifted an eyebrow.

The gesture, indicative of his relatively good mood, was one that Domovoi hadn't seen in months – and had missed. At that point there was no question to be answered anymore, and Domovoi formulated a generic response: "You decide what you do, and if the bodyguard disagrees so strongly, he'll give notice."

"But I don't want you to leave," Artemis protested, as if there was a chance of it happening.

"I warned you this would happen." Domovoi did not like saying 'I told you so', but in this instance he was helpless.

"I fail to see how it is a bad thing."

The hotel came into view, and Artemis surprised Domovoi by assertively refusing to step out and wait, and insisting to go down to the garage, probably afraid that their conversation would be cut short by the brief interruption when he, for once, liked where it was going.

"I'm asking for your advice," Artemis pressed on, "and I think that, maybe, finally, I am old enough to be able to take it, too."

Domovoi concentrated on parking the car in between two far more expensive models. He didn't need to, at least not nearly as much, but this shift of balance threw him. He had never in his memory been consulted as an equal. He was not supposed to be equal to his principal, but he and Artemis had stopped minding the rules a very long time ago, and what was normal wouldn't have worked for them anymore.

It did not help that he wished for his principal's happiness more than for his safety.

"It has been tried before," he said. He had heard reports of dozens of similar cases. Principals liked to view their bodyguards as personal heroes, and that invariably led to feelings being developed. "It never works. Do you remember how you felt when I took a bullet for you?"

The light in the garage was dim, but even so Domovoi could see Artemis' jaw tighten.

Artemis had not told anyone of those five hours, at least not within Domovoi's earshot. Shrinks had no chance to figure out the man, so the only way he would have talked was if he had wanted to talk – and Domovoi could see clearly that that was not the case.

Shockingly, Artemis spoke, barely loudly enough to be heard over the sound of their footsteps: "It was petrifying. I can't fathom how I was even able to function. That you survived is… one of my greatest accomplishments to date."

Coming from the genius that had deciphered gnommish, uncovered an entire civilisation of magical beings, started and stopped wars, and managed to earn so much money that he didn't know what to do with it (all before the age of twenty-two), that was a very heavy statement.

The elevator door slid shut behind them and Domovoi noted that Artemis was standing in the opposite corner, as far from him as possible, which suggested that he was feeling vulnerable. On the ground floor a trio of Asians (all of them below Artemis' height – such a rarity that Domovoi noticed) got on, and Artemis, without making it obvious, moved so that he was shielded from them by Domovoi's bulk.

They worked together no less seamlessly than ever.

The three strangers exited on a lower floor, but Artemis remained silent even after the door to their room was safely shut behind them.

"That was while our relationship was still more or less professional," Domovoi said, garnering that cynical laughter that he despised.

Artemis divested himself off the coat, hung it up and left it dripping rainwater into his shoes. His hair was wet, too, but not so much that it would drip. Methodically, he set to removing the rest of his clothing, and grabbed his nightwear on his way to the bathroom.

He paused in the door, silhouetted by the sharp white artificial light, and looked back over his shoulder. "Domovoi…" he said plaintively and continued, gesturing vaguely between them: "This…_distance_ doesn't change the fact that your death is unacceptable to me. Maybe one day I shall meet someone with whom I could speak about things that interest me. Perhaps I would learn to trust that person enough to let them see me vulnerable…"

He moved to close the door then, and Domovoi wasn't sure if he was meant to hear the muttered: "I'm not holding my breath."

x

They took a late flight from Stockholm-Arlanda to Belfast International, and Artemis went fluidly from a day of research to a night of travelling to a day of work. Domovoi was glad to be sitting at the end of it, even if he was sitting in a dining room, listening to twins blabbering, and doing his best not to fall face-first into his food.

Domovoi had built up a serious sleep deprivation over the last week and worried that, had Artemis not decided on a spur to return today, he would have buckled under the strain. He was beginning to feel his age.

"…can't you stay for a while? How was Sweden?" Angeline was asking.

Domovoi registered it because Beckett had attempted to shoot him with projectile peas, and his instincts had kicked in, bringing him to full alert.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Artemis replied with a wintry smile. "I was gone for too long, and there is a brimming inbox waiting for me to get to. I'm afraid I'll need Butler's help with it."

Domovoi beat a hasty retreat; Artemis Senior obviously noticed that something was going on, and so did Juliet, but the unspoken truce that Artemis' business was Artemis' held, and no one was questioned in public. Juliet, however, would certainly come pester him as soon as she had a free moment-

"Follow me," Artemis said (Domovoi had dared to hope it had been just an excuse and he would be left to rest), unlocked the door, punched in two security codes in a quick succession, and beckoned Domovoi to enter first.

The computer, after a week of stand-by, whirred to life and announced: "Identification positive: Butler. Identification positive: Artemis." It was a change from 'Arty', 'Master Artemis' and even 'myself', which all had been used at some point in the past.

"This room is Juliet-proof," Artemis said and nudged Domovoi in the direction of the bed, before he seated himself in front of the screen and, for once true to his word, opened his inbox. The number of unread messages had only three digits.

"I can't-"

"Nonsense," Artemis cut him off, without glancing away from the screen or hesitating in his typing. "If it will make you feel safer, I could promise not to join you."

The wry humour – because for once it was humour (Domovoi wasn't nearly sleepy enough to mistake that) – made Domovoi freeze in shock. He had not heard it since… he could not remember. Artemis didn't joke. He never had had much of a sense of humour, but somewhere along the way he seemed to have lost it entirely. That it was back now, revived…

Domovoi reminded himself of where he was and what he should not be contemplating, and by that time it was too late: he had been conned into staying. Sans his Sig Sauer and his shoes, he lay down on the duvet, closed his eyes and was lulled to sleep by the rapid clicking of the keys.

He woke, very briefly, some time past midnight, and almost attacked in an instinctual fight reaction. He halted his hand inches from Artemis' neck.

A soft palm was pressed briefly to his mouth before he could formulate a query; then there was some squirming and Artemis, fully clothed and falling over with exhaustion, simply wedged himself next to Domovoi, who moved as far as he could and, indeed, tried to get out of his principal's bed, but was prevented by a thin ice-cold hand latching onto him.

"Stay," Artemis said quietly. He kept his back to Domovoi and retained possession of his right hand, lacing bony, stick-like fingers through Domovoi's.

It was all sorts of wrong and had no right making anyone feel that good.

"Why couldn't you have seen me as a parental figure?" Domovoi muttered with no little amount of desperation, settling back down. Artemis was pressed against him, child-like and yet not.

Domovoi imagined him smiling – it was a fiction, because Artemis did not smile truly.

"It has to do with the amount of authority you didn't have over me."

The computer quietly whirred, and the Earth kept on turning, and Domovoi fell asleep with his hand in his principal's unyielding grip.

x

It was just past four in the afternoon, and already it would have been dark, had the lights of night Reykjavík not illuminated the city so brightly that it must have been possible to see it from orbit.

Domovoi, unable to settle, walked up to the window and glanced out. It was now, after sunset, that the city really became alive and the Icelanders intermixed with tourists, mostly already inebriated, came out into the streets. In late December, between Christmas and New Year, there were so many people there it was hard to believe they weren't trampling over each other. He was glad that Artemis had decided to cut his sojourn short today – otherwise they would have been out there pushing their way through the crowd.

"You're making me tired just by watching you," Artemis muttered, notably not having looked up from his book. It was unclear how he had gotten one of the rarer exemplars out of the _Þjóðarbókhlaðan_ – the main building of the National and University Library – and Domovoi, as usually, suspected that there was magic involved, but if he were to go on the evidence of his eyes and common sense, he would have to admit that it was probably just Artemis' mastery of foul play.

With a grimace of exasperation, Artemis leant back into the puffy black armchair, settled the priceless manuscript on his thighs, and kicked his feet up onto the polished table. "I mean it, Domovoi," he said serenely. "Go lie down. I'll make it an order if I have to."

Domovoi had not yet moved on from the sight of the shoes. They were black, with a slight tip in the front that was less than practical, but apparently expected of someone of his principal's social standing. The truly bad thing about them, though, was that Artemis was wearing them now, while seemingly having finished his work for the day.

Domovoi hoped that there was _someone_ to hear his prayer that his principal didn't mean to go out on his own the moment he was asleep.

"Go," Artemis repeated. "I'll be up with this-" he indicated the book, "-for a few hours yet, anyway. I have a Neutrino on me, _and_ I promise to wake you if someone tries to assassinate or abduct me."

Domovoi resented the wry, sardonic smile – he was not the least bit amused by the witticism – but complied, because he was becoming hyperactive on exhaustion. He briefly considered attempting to extract a promise that Artemis would not leave the suite unaccompanied, but there was only so much worth in the promises Artemis gave; Domovoi would have more luck just trusting the man's intelligence to keep him relatively safe.

He nodded and silently adjourned to find the so-far unused bed – he had caught his few hours of rest here and there on the sofa in the living room – cleared of all the material he had covered it with. He knew he was being manipulated again, but the knowledge itself wasn't enough to help him evade the scheme and, if he were to be totally honest, he wasn't certain he wanted to anymore.

Divested of his jacket, shoes and couple of the most bulging weapons, all of which were placed safely within arm's reach, Domovoi sank into the soft bedding, unaccustomed to such luxury to the point of being uncomfortable. With his eyes closed, he could hear the loud conversation of the next-door patrons in the lilting tones of a language he wasn't familiar with, and, quieter yet, the tiny motions of his principal.

This was almost becoming a habit. Domovoi ran himself ragged trying to accommodate Artemis' increasingly demanding schedule, and once in a while, when fatigue began to take its toll on Domovoi's effectiveness, Artemis would _order_ him to go and sleep. It was not easy to obey: he was too far past the brink of exhaustion, too worried that his principal would do something immensely dangerous while colossally overestimating himself or underestimating the enemy and get himself killed, too petrified by the possible reasons why Artemis had spent hours with his lawyer drafting a will before they had departed for Iceland-

He woke rapidly from a nightmare about some kind of eight-legged horse and first became aware of his surroundings while crouching next to his bed, knife in hand and eyes sweeping the room. He could see Artemis through the doorway; he looked like he had barely moved in the few hours, only the page he was reading was significantly closer to the end of the book.

Domovoi couldn't guess whether his principal had, in fact, left or not.

"I want you to reconsider your contract," Artemis said, blatantly taking advantage of Domovoi's semi-somnolent state.

It still felt like a punch to the soft tissue.

"I won't lie to you," the young man continued. "I want you with me. I always will-"

Manipulation, Domovoi thought, maybe not an outright lie, but definitely sweet-talking. He couldn't not notice – he was sleepy, not mentally indisposed.

"-but just because I am dissatisfied and overconfident, you don't have to die."

That issue had become moot years ago. Artemis was perpetually overconfident and they had both almost-died because of it more often than could be counted. Still, for Artemis to raise the issue now, he must have found what he had been looking for these past months, and it looked like it was going to be an even more suicidal errand than kidnapping a LEPrecon officer.

Artemis stood and placed the borrowed book on the table, hiding it under the ancient copy of Poetic Edda pilfered from the Fowl library, which had recently become his personal bible.

Domovoi took a long, searching look at his principal. Artemis was past pale and well into shades of grey, but standing straight; determination had replaced the brokenness in his expression, bringing new light to his eyes. He did not resemble himself ten years ago as Domovoi thought he would: he was an entirely new person, with a purpose and an apparent stoic acceptance of the death he thought was approaching.

Taking the sight into account, Domovoi didn't need time to think. "I'm not leaving." Artemis had been right, once again. Domovoi _could not_ leave.

With a curious mix of resignation and relief, Artemis smiled, wolf-like, showing a row of pearly teeth. He hopped up onto the table and beckoned Domovoi to come closer and closer, within touching distance, and then pulled him into a hug.

Startled, Domovoi couldn't quite figure out where to put his hands; Artemis was such a little thing next to him, with face buried into his chest, and Domovoi was half-afraid he would break him if he squeezed even a little. Once again, though, they ended up in close physical contact, and Domovoi couldn't even begin to pretend to himself that it was not the happiest place on Earth.

"See?" Artemis whispered. "It doesn't matter anymore, whatever it was that always stopped you."

Domovoi looked down then, meeting a pair of eyes that shone with the light of beginning madness. He had not noticed when the workload and the lack of stimulation had started to drive his principal literally insane, but here it was, and Artemis Fowl was going down fighting, because he just did not give up. Ever.

"I thought," Artemis said, a bit more loudly, "it was a case of when you've done it once, it will be easy to do it again. It's not. Getting you to consent is turning out to be a challenge." He tried to shift, to free his hands, but against Domovoi's brute strength he was helpless. "I thought I could get anything I set my mind to but… I could try to somehow force you or blackmail you, but then you would resent me and... That is the one thing I couldn't deal with. Don't resent me, Domovoi, please..."

Artemis was laying it on a bit too thick, and it felt like a blow to the head. To Domovoi it seemed like he had finally woken from sleep, staring at the man draped over him and asking himself if this person truly only had morals with regards to killing sentient creatures.

Still, no matter how much of this was manipulation and lip-service, Domovoi knew that Artemis loved him. Loved him childishly and obsessively, but loved him nonetheless, and therefore wouldn't give up, because Artemis did not give up. He sometimes retreated, even for long periods of time apparently – and Domovoi was ridiculously proud of his charge finally having taught himself patience, even if for such a profoundly wrong goal – but he always came back and pushed and pushed until he got what he wanted.

Domovoi's mind and body independently of each other came to the same decision in the same instance. He lifted the body in his arms off the table – it was hardly a strain, since Artemis weighed less than an average woman – and carried it over to his recently abandoned bed, where he threw it into the rumpled covers with perhaps less gentleness that would be prudent. Artemis, wide-eyed and for once completely stumped, began to laugh: a true, mirthful laughter that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

Domovoi knew he was being careless now, for if anyone chose now to attack he wouldn't be able to respond to the threat, but rationality was deserting him when faced with the picture of Artemis pulling his shirt over his head and setting to work on Domovoi's buttons with quick, deft, keyboard-trained fingers.

"This will not become an everyday thing," Domovoi warned, taking off Artemis' shoes and throwing them carelessly into the corner. He could not stand this amount of danger, could not succumb to such complacency, on regular basis.

"I did not think so," Artemis replied, already naked, showing off the finally widened shoulders of an adult man. "Thank you."

Domovoi grabbed him, pushed him down into the mattress and hoped that he knew enough to not make this painful and regrettable.

x

Artemis was lying face down, sniggering into the pillow.

Domovoi, more curious than worried due to the endorphin rush, let out a vaguely questioning and wholly inarticulate sound.

"I was half-afraid that I'd find I didn't like it;" Artemis said with brutal honesty (for once Domovoi almost wished he had lied), "that my memory was distorted by the chemicals."

But he had not found that, obviously, and that was as much encouragement as Domovoi needed to reach out and touch the sweat-slicked expanse of skin. Artemis' back was cold. Domovoi made him shift so that he could arrange the covers over him, and became concerned when the young man moved too carefully and his body tensed.

For a fraction of a second he glimpsed a grimace; it was gone instantly, masked, but Domovoi knew beyond a shadow of doubt that Artemis was in pain – hurt by his ignorance and uncouthness.

"It was better than I remembered," Artemis said with a wry smile… and then failed to hide a wince when Domovoi pulled him closer.

They were near enough for a kiss now, if either of them had been so inclined. Neither made a move to close the distance, though, and somehow that made sense, because it was one thing to (however inappropriately) use their bodies in expression of trust and devotion, and an entirely different one to subscribe to something as ridiculous as lip-locking. They weren't lovers, after all.

They were shield-brothers, going to war.

"Will you tell me what you're planning?" Domovoi asked, sitting up and hunting for his clothes. It was an entirely unfamiliar situation to him, and he didn't know quite what to feel, before he came to the conclusion that there was no need to feel anything.

"Earth is," Artemis started explaining at what seemed to him a logical beginning, "according to Norse mythology, the central of three worlds – _Midgard_. Literally, it is the 'middle-earth'. In the instance that this is real – which I am almost sold on – I want to contact the higher level: the _Asgard_."

Domovoi paused in the process of dressing and observed his principal (which address was all sorts of wrong while the man was naked and lounging in bed after they had engaged in intercourse). Artemis was looking back at him, sane and stoic and amused.

"This sounds uncomfortably familiar," Domovoi remarked.

Artemis shrugged. "No kidnapping this time, I promise – at least not unless it is absolutely necessary. If the Lower Elements have technology decades more advanced than ours, I shudder to think what the so-called gods would pull out."

"Gods," Domovoi repeated, incredulous but too-aware that the generally accepted boundaries of reality were nothing but a convenient blindfold for the mankind.

"Domovoi…" Artemis spoke up carefully, suddenly serious as if there was any need to emphasise that the endavour would be dangerous and thus was not to be taken – or undertaken – lightly. "We will most likely die attempting this. Quickly."

But 'most likely' meant that there was a chance that they would not die, and if there was a chance then Artemis was going to make it happen. Domovoi believed that; it was one of the cornerstones of _his_ reality, one of the reasons why he was still alive.

And if they died… if they did, then Artemis would have died being alive, _damn it_, and being as close to happy as he could, and that was thousand times better than watching him succumb to the dreary melancholy of the well-known and anticipated. Because Artemis would never be happy discovering or inventing or figuring out, controlling or usurping… not even winning.

The only thing that made Artemis Fowl not only know, but _feel_ that he was better, that he was special and that he damn well deserved to be worshipped, was defeating the odds.

Showing off that his knowledge of Latin wasn't limited to the 'aurum potestas est' of Fowls, Domovoi wryly replied: "Aut vincere, aut mori, then?"


	4. Sequel Alert

**Sequel Alert!**

As of today, I have finished writing the sequel to _Penchant For Deceit_. It is called _Chooser of the Slain_ and consists of five chapters. It can be accessed through my profile and will be updated weekly. For your convenience, the summary:

Artemis is determined to walk through doors that are closed to others – even when Butler cannot follow. The world goes on turning. DBAF

Enjoy!

Brynn


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